Perhaps things could be remade. She had held little faith of such a miracle occurring—strange, really, given her optimism when faced with any number of grievous social problems. Her thinking was admirably rational on so many fronts, but faded to nothing when it came to Calcourt.
She had been all reaction, when it came to him. All sentiment, all spirit. A little logic would serve her well. As would a period of calm, objective reflection before speaking to him again.
She stopped for a moment, breathing in the night air. The stars above her were clearer than they were in London; she admired them, any tiredness forgotten in appreciation of their beauty.
A soft, glowing light distracted her. Sattersall Chapel, the small building that had been tightly shut when they had arrived, now had an open door. A large, black-clad figure was walking into it, a candle held aloft.
James.
Should she pursue him now? Beg him to discount her earlier words—beg him to listen to her? To hold her as he had earlier?
No. She couldn’t be impetuous. Even though the feeling coursing through her veins seemed utterly unignorable, watching him walk away from her.
She would return to her rooms, and prepare for bed. She would plait her hair, and put on her nightgown, and pray for calm. Pray for her troubled soul to soothe itself, and to sleep with untroubled dreams.
And if none of that worked—none of it—then she would go to him. Go to him, speak her heart, and hope.
Sattersall Chapel was even more magnificent than its reputation suggested. Its pure, sculptural simplicity, its hushed splendour in the candlelight, struck Calcourt quite powerfully as he wandered towards the altar.
He certainly wasn’t allowed to be here so late at night. Fortunately, a vicar’s vestments and an air of general business led to all sorts of doors being unlocked—especially by a tired doorman who couldn’t wait to return to his post and sleep. Calcourt drifted between the pews, weariness slowly overcoming him, still too restless to sleep.
He had never imagined the hunger that had overtaken him in the carriage. The sudden, frightening need for Mary that had erupted in him—the passion that had brought him to his knees. He had sworn he would never speak to her thusly, reveal his heart to her so thoroughly… but he had also never imagined, not once, the eagerness with which Mary would meet his every urge with urges of her own.
The passion had been almost frightening. The fierceness with which they had sought one another filled him still, burning like fire, making it impossible to sleep. She had looked so happy—so ecstatic, transcendent in her beauty…
… And then the moment had been broken, the link between them had broken, and now she would never come to him again. The shame would be too great for her, and he understood despite the despair that rose in him.
He could pray. He could pray with an open heart, and nothing left. Pray as he had never done before—giving up the worst of his sins, the basest of his wants, in search of a greater truth. A greater love.
Prayer couldn’t heal a heart broken for such selfish reasons. Prayer could heal true grief—true sorrow. Not the sorrow of a man who had tried to win back the only woman he had ever loved, only to be told that it was too little, too late.
This must have been how Mary had felt, when he had treated her with such neglect. Young men were fools, yes—but she had been wise. He should have tried to match that wisdom. Tried to make himself worthy.
The only thing he could do, in all good conscience, was pray that she was happier without him.
He didn’t know how much time passed as he prayed. In the heart of the night, it didn’t seem to matter. All he knew, when he raised his head, was that the candle he had placed on the altar had dribbled wax onto the pristine white cloth.
He would have to apologise to the priest, and pay whatever washerwoman was assigned such an odious task. Sighing, Calcourt rose to attend to the matter.
A soft rustle from behind him made him turn. When he saw who it was, his heart rose to his throat.
‘Please.’ Mary, on the threshold of the church. Mary, in her nightgown. ‘Please don’t speak.’
Calcourt was too shocked to do anything of the sort. He watched Mary walk into the church, her nightgown a celestial white against the dark wood of the closed door. He had dreamed of seeing her like this, intimate, unadorned. He sat in a pew with a soft, lingering sigh as she approached the altar, turning to look at him.
‘I’m shivering, but I’m not cold.’ She folded her arms; Calcourt watched her fingers tremble, wishing he could kiss them. ‘And I’m frightened, but—but not of you.’
‘I understand if you are.’
‘I’ve never been frightened of you, James.’ The use of his Christian name sent tingling sparks through Calcourt’s fingers, for all the world as if Mary were touching him. Mary moved closer; Calcourt watched the contours of her body shift, the linen of her nightgown glowing in the candlelight. ‘You must know that.’
‘Sometimes you seem frightened. When I look at you—when you look at me.’
‘I am frightened. I told you.’ Mary paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘But of myself. Not of you.’
Biting his lip, determined not to say a single word that could disturb this mirage, Calcourt made space on the pew. Mary sat next to him, her head shyly turned away, the hem of her nightgown brushing against his shoes.
‘I have been cruel. I have been very cruel, not listening to you. Seeing your past self, rather than the man you have become.’
‘Not as cruel as I was to you.’
‘You have made every effort to become a good man, and you have succeeded.’
‘I should have come to you on bended knee, weeping.’
‘And I wouldn’t have listened to you, because you weren’t a good man.’
‘... Are you listening now?’
‘Yes.’ Mary turned to him. The courage in her eyes filled Calcourt with dizzying want. ‘I’m listening.’
It would be too much to reach for her hand. To kiss her knuckles, her palm, her wrist—to grip her tightly, hoping she never let go. Calcourt leaned forward, breathing in the faint flower-water scent of Mary’s hair, trusting his voice not to tremble.
‘I love you. I always have. And all these years, I have endeavoured to deserve you.’ Mary’s soft sigh as she leaned closer made his every word worthwhile. ‘You are the pinnacle of my hopes. The fulcrum of my efforts.’
‘You are too kind to me.’
‘I shall be too kind to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.’
‘It’s not a question of letting you.’
A stab of disappointment ran through Calcourt. ‘You won’t let me?’
‘No. I won’t let you.’ Mary smiled, her voice tentative but growing in strength. ‘I… I want you to.’
It was too much to bear. Too much to take, sitting placidly beside her. With a harsh sigh, want briefly overcoming reason, Calcourt pulled her into his lap as Mary’s scandalised gasp ran through the church.
‘Forgive me. I couldn’t resist.’ He buried his face in her neck, her skin butterfly-soft on his lips. ‘I shall put you back, if you demand it.’
‘I’m not going to demand it.’ Mary’s lips gently brushed against his neck; Calcourt bit his lip, his cock stiffening. ‘But… but I do not wish to be overcome, as we both were in the carriage.’
‘No. We can be slow. We can be gentle.’ Calcourt held his breath as Mary leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘As slow and gentle as you like.’
‘It is wrong to be like… like this… here.’
‘But you came to me here.’
‘I wanted to show you that—that I meant what I said.’ Mary snuggled closer; Calcourt held her in his arms, her curves tight against him. ‘That I was definite.’
‘I have never doubted that you were definite. But if you wish to go somewhere else, I will take you anywhere you wish to go.’
‘Someone will see us.’
‘Possibly.’
‘And… and I am very comfortable here.’
‘As am I.’ Calcourt’s cock was growing harder by the minute. ‘I don’t wish to move you, seeing as you’re so comfortable.’
‘I shouldn’t be this comfortable in a church.’
‘I’m a vicar.’ Calcourt couldn’t resist a smile as he murmured in her ear. ‘I can assure you, all sins will be forgiven.’
‘Good.’ Mary shifted in his arms. Calcourt bit back a gasp as she settled more firmly in his lap, sitting all but astride him. ‘The assurances of a holy man are always much more reliable than a man cut from common cloth.’
‘You know exactly what cloth I’m cut from. You’ve felt every seam of me.’
‘You’re the only man who has ever really made me laugh.’
‘That used to be all I was fit for.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Miss Atterson, I’m scandalised.’
‘You didn’t know what I was going to say.’
Calcourt kissed the corner of her mouth, delighting in her laughter. She was so beautiful when she laughed. ‘I took an educated guess.’
‘I see. My moral failure is so absolute that I am to begin making bawdy jokes?’
‘Nothing we have ever done together could be described as bawdy.’ Calcourt gently brushed the tip of Mary’s nose with his own, unable to quite believe in her proximity. The reality of her next to him, on top of him, her arms around him. ‘I’ve already told you the perfect word for it.’
‘Holy.’
‘Yes.’ Calcourt kissed her, delighting in her softness. Her lips opened readily to his; he would make up for all the moments they had missed together, kiss by kiss. ‘Holy.’
It was suddenly very clear what they needed to do. What they had to do—what they were going to do in spite of where they were, or perhaps because of it. Mary’s breathing had changed in response to him; her arms slid around his neck. Calcourt shifted, biting his lip as his hard cock rested between Mary’s linen-draped thighs.
He hadn’t wanted to in the carriage. Not because of the location, or a lack of desire on his part—he had been more than ready physically. His reticence had been due to Mary, to not knowing if her sudden intense passion would last. Now, here, it was different.
She was different. She wasn’t frightened anymore, of either him or herself. He could tell from the way she held him, from the way she looked at him, her eyes large and lovely in the moonlight from the chapel windows.
There was no need for negotiation. No need for words at all—no need to disrobe, or wait, or even think. Calcourt lifted Mary’s nightgown, the linen bunched and crumpled in his fists as she silently unbuttoned his breeches.
It was the work of a moment. A slight raising of his thighs, and a soft, sweet moment of fumbling. She was wet, perfectly so—he sighed as he felt her, her hot, silken entrance as she sank down onto him, inch by slow inch.
For a long, quiet minute they were still, apart from trembling. Calcourt bit his lip as she welcomed him, squeezing him tight; the pleasure that flooded him was so much more potent, more spectacular, than he remembered.
They were one, joined as they always should have been. The thought was so enormous, so precious, that it drowned out everything else.
He strained his hips upward as Mary shifted, rolling against him. Pleasure shuddered through the both of them, unstoppable as lightning; Calcourt covered Mary’s mouth with his, his moan humming through the kiss as he thrust again. There was no need to find a rhythm, to build one through trial and error. They had already built one years ago, built it to perfection, and now all he had to do was return with a glad heart to what he already knew.
‘Ohh.’ Mary’s soft, broken sigh was delicious against his lips as he thrust again. They didn’t need athleticism, the licentious poses hidden in the back of book with illicit illustrations. These small, animal movements were everything they needed. ‘Oh, James.’
The sound of his name in her mouth spurred him onward. He reached up between their two bodies, finding the hard, berry-dark points of Mary’s nipples just visible beneath her nightgown. Pushing beneath her bodice, watching her skin prickle with awareness at his touch, he gently caressed her stiff, swollen nipple as he held her tight against him. Mary rested her head on his shoulder, her mouth hot and pleading on his neck as she moved faster, a broken moan coming from deep in her throat.
They didn’t need to take their time. God knows he didn’t want to. Not for his own pleasure, not at all—he wanted to feel Mary tighten around him, shaking as she came. He wanted to hear that soft, yielding cry of surrender leave her lips as she quivered, her bliss outweighing any last remnants of her restraint.
‘I want to feel you.’ He whispered in her ear, husky, urgent as he thrust deeper. He had always known how much of him she could take, how much she needed for her peak to build. He could feel her shivering now, nearly overcome with the strength of the sensation. ‘Let go for me. Please.’
Mary’s low, ragged cry of assent, muffled in his clothes, was sweeter than anything he’d ever heard. Her pleasure had always fuelled his, and vice versa—if she was going to come undone, he couldn’t keep himself together. They had always abandoned themselves in one another, making something greater than the sum of their parts.
‘Yes.’ He urged her onward, pinching her nipple hard as his thrusts grew less controlled. He had worried about hurting her when he was younger—but she had guided him, had taught him how much pain she liked to add piquancy to her pleasure. Just enough to intensify the sweetness; God, how erotic it had been, learning her limits. ‘Let go, love. Let go.’
He gritted his teeth as Mary gripped his cock tightly, a shiver running through her body that brought a moan to his own lips. Everything was suddenly swift, hard, frantic. He was desperate to finish, as desperate as she was, but determined to have her finish first. Moving his hand around her waist, pulling her so tight to him that he could hear her rapid heartbeat, he thrust with all her strength as he kissed her. They needed to be together, as together as it was possible to be—he’d be damned if there was an inch between them, a hair’s breadth, when she finally came undone.
Her high, arching cry fell over him like a blessing. Calcourt held her to him as she shivered violently, her climax breaking over them both, eventually gripping her half-unpinned hair with a harsh, low grunt as he finished deep inside her, once, twice.
They held one another, panting as their passion slowly cooled. Eventually, with a sigh of pleasurable frustration, Mary gently shifted away.
‘We are utterly sacreligious.’ She sighed again as she stretched, curling against Calcourt as he put his arm around her. ‘Fit for the flames, and nothing more.’
‘I told you—we’re forgiven. I’m a vicar.’
‘I doubt you’re a vicar with your vestments in such an atrocious condition.’
‘Keep talking like that, and I’ll remove them entirely.’
‘That would be a step too far.’ Mary’s embarrassed laughter filled the pews. ‘As a man of God, you should be much less daring.’
‘If I were much less daring, then I wouldn’t be here with you.’
‘I think you’ll find that I was the more daring one in this instance.’
‘If I hadn’t told you how I felt in the carriage, you wouldn’t have come to me.’
‘You have no idea why I came to you. I could have had a visitation from a saint between the woollen delivery and dinner.’
‘I love you.’
There was a long, soft silence. Mary rested her chin on Calcourt’s chest, looking up at him, her gaze unspeakably lovely in the candlelight.
‘I love you too.’ She smiled. ‘I do.’
‘You paused before telling me.’ Doubt filled Calcourt’s breast; he pushed it down with immense effort. ‘Does that mean you’re unsure?’
‘No.’ Mary shook her head. ‘I had to give appropriate honour to the past, and say goodbye to it. That can take a moment.’
‘And have you said goodbye to it? You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.’
‘I do want to.’ Mary’s tone grew more grave. ‘I am happier this way.’
Calcourt moved to kiss her. The taste of her, the soft, yielding feel of her body as she sighed, was as sacred as any holy words he had ever said. ‘You sound so serious. I’ve missed that seriousness.’
‘I was never all that good at being light. You brought out my lightness.’
‘And I’ll bring it out again. You’ll be a happy bride.’
‘I’ll be a happy bride-to-be, right now, right this minute—if this is you asking me to marry you, of course.’
‘What else would it be? Marry me.’
‘If I pause before I say yes, will you doubt my seriousness?’
‘I’ll try my very best not to.’
‘And if I were to do something dramatic, in order to prove my seriousness?’
‘You don’t have to do something dramatic.’
‘But if I did?’
Calcourt couldn’t help but laugh, full of pleasure and contentment. ‘I would be very happy.’
‘It could cause the most tremendous scandal.’
‘Perhaps tremendous scandals should be avoided. A small scandal would work.’
‘Yes. A localised scandal.’ Mary rested her head on his chest again; Calcourt stroked her cheek as he luxuriated in the feel of her. She was built for this, leaning against him—just as she was built for him in every other way. ‘Confined to one place, perhaps.’
‘It’s difficult to find a piece of London that can be easily confined.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of London. A smaller place—one that doesn’t receive many visitors from the metropolis, and is perhaps too busy with its own concerns to raise large amounts of gossip.’
‘How very specific.’ Calcourt frowned, confused but entertained at Mary’s sudden focus on the best location for a scandal. ‘But you appear to be avoiding the details.’
‘Oh no. I’m trying to consider the details from start to finish.’ Mary’s small, secret smile sent a new thrill through him as she lifted her head. ‘But perhaps one doesn’t need to plan things from beginning to end. After all—the future can be awfully unexpected.’
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 34